JUST A MINUTE: Exotic foods aren’t exactly my cup of tea

Quail’s eggs, as an intellectual concept, are acceptable as a means for making baby quails, but I’d hardly consider them a food source.

By Julie Fay

The Patriot Ledger, Quincy, MA

By Julie Fay

Posted Jul. 14, 2013 at 12:01 AM
Updated Jul 14, 2013 at 2:12 PM

By Julie Fay

Posted Jul. 14, 2013 at 12:01 AM
Updated Jul 14, 2013 at 2:12 PM

» Social News

We were touring a farmers’ market on our recent vacation in southern Québec.

I, of course, headed right for the bakery stall, admiring the croissants and baguettes. We stocked up on enough French carbs to last a few days, and then wandered among the vendors, admiring the baby lettuces and inhaling the heavenly fragrance of strawberries.

We happened upon a strange-looking display of marbled eggs.

“Quail’s eggs,” said the proprietor.

He explained, a little too eagerly, that fresh quail eggs could be used just like chicken eggs for cooking or eating.

“Oui, in a special solution of vinegar and 7-Up,” said the quailleur, proud of his pickling ingenuity, and convinced of his winning recipe.

I pressed my lips together and averted my gaze.

I have, at best, a tenuous relationship with eggs, preferring not to think about them too much beyond the price per dozen.

Quail’s eggs, as an intellectual concept, are acceptable as a means for making baby quails, but I’d hardly consider them a food source.

Tiny, hard-boiled quail’s eggs floating in an unholy concoction of 7-Up and vinegar were too much for me.

“Uh, I’ll be over here,” I mumbled, backing away from the pickled horror show.

I busied myself looking at some handmade jewelry. Soon Earl joined me with a half-pint Mason jar of PQEs, as they came to be known.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked him.

I clutched the baguette like a billy club. “Keep your distance, there, tiny PQEs,” I thought.

“You don’t have to eat them,” he assured me.

“You’ve got that right, monsieur,” I muttered.

Back at the house, Earl decided it was time for a snack. He opened the jar and fished out one glistening orb with a fork. He popped the whole thing in his mouth, gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, and chewed.

I had to leave the room.

“It’s actually pretty good,” he called after me.

“Mom, can I try one?” asked 9-year-old Brian.

I came back in and looked at Earl. “Do you think he’ll like them?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

“Maybe,” Earl said. “Here, buddy, I’ll cut you a slice.”

Soon Brian had a small piece of PQE in his hand. He smiled at it, took a breath, and popped the whole thing into his mouth. He kept it there for about three seconds, and then made a beeline for the trash can.

Page 2 of 2 - “Mom, can I have a drink?” he gasped between coughs.

“Of course,” I said, reaching for the fridge.

Earl smiled sadly, shaking his head.

Once Brian’s breathing had returned to normal, he looked at me.

“Mom, that was gross,” he said.

“Well, it was good for you to try it,” I answered soothingly. “Now you know you don’t like them.”

“Are you going to try them?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said, spreading a little goat cheese on a slice of baguette. “I think we’ll leave that whole jar for Dad.”